


I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming In Pants, I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man, Lapdance, Little Red Corvette, M/M, No Mary, Pole Dancing, Post-Reichenbach, Raspberry Beret, Sherlock in Heels, Songfic, Thieves in the Temple, Tribute to Prince, U Got the Look, purple rain - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6661828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Update!</b> Chapter 4. On Hallowe’en, John’s held hostage in the Aquarium. It’s Sherlock to the rescue! In knickers and heels. And Prince, of course. ("Thieves in the Temple").</p>
<p>For the Kinktober Day 15 prompt: lapdance.</p>
<p>PWP with feels. Songfic. Prince tribute fic. Sherlock in high heels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I never meant to cause you any sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to the [Sherlock in Heels](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/) tumblr for providing inspiration in the form of [Prada Swarovski crystal-encrusted heels](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/post/129569487845/the-moment-he-saw-the-model-run-john-wanted-them).

“Oh! What a shame!” John glanced at his watch. “Huh. It’s 10:35 on a lonely Friday night. Fitting.”

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“Prince died.”

“You said we didn’t have—“

“I said we didn’t have a _king,_ Sherlock. We have princes, but this is, was, a musician. American.”

“Not a friend of yours.”

“No, I get more upset when my friends die,” John snapped. Then he glanced at his phone and sighed. “I loved his music when I was young, and watching him perform, I started to question things about myself, even though I didn’t have anything but questions for a long time. He was electrifying. Extraordinary. Beautiful. And brave in ways I understood but couldn’t explain.”

Sherlock said nothing.

John got to his feet. “Never mind. I know: boring.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t interested, John, and I used to find discussions—and demonstrations—of your sexuality very interesting. Or don’t you recall? Three years is a long time for someone your age.”

John fixed him with a hard stare, then sighed again. “Why are we still arguing?”

“Because _you_ won’t let it go!”

“Because _you_ won’t apologise!”

“Oh, I am sorry, John, for sacrificing three years of my life to keep you alive!”

“It was about ego. And pride. And bloody arrogance. It had _nothing_ to do with me! I risked killing for you within forty-eight hours of meeting you, you didn’t think that I would gladly risk dying for you?”

“Exactly what I was preventing! Why can’t you understand that?”

John put on his jacket. “It’s been months, Sherlock. The same argument. Over and over. I am beginning to think that reconciliation is impossible.”

“Or highly improbable,” replied Sherlock softly as the front door slammed.

* * *

**Where’s Sherlock? GL**

**Haven’t seen him since yesterday. JW**

**He stopped answering my texts. GL**

John frowned and swallowed the last of his beer.

**I’ll check the flat. JW**

* * *

“Sherlock?”

The Belstaff was hanging on a hook, but the sitting room and kitchen were dark.

John walked down the hall. Sherlock’s bedroom door was open. He peeked inside. No Sherlock.

“Yoo hoo!”

“Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Sherlock?”

“Not since this morning, love. A pair of telegrams for you.”

“Telegrams? Who sends telegrams these days?”

“Who knows what goes on in that funny brain of his?”

John read.

WATSON. COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT. IF INCONVENIENT, COME ALL THE SAME. BRING COAT AND PHONE. ADDRESS TO FOLLOW.

The address did, indeed, follow.

John grabbed the Belstaff and, feeling the weight of Sherlock’s mobile in the pocket, raced down the stairs.

* * *

John checked the address again.

A case, surely.

He entered, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A voice boomed from the stage.

“… _let’s give a round of applause. I want to thank you all for coming out_. _It’s a special night at the Spearmint Rhino. Amateur night, as we do every Saturday, but tonight is our ‘Tribute to Prince’ night_ …”

John scanned the room.

A tray of cocktails hovered into view.

He said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone—“

“Aren’t we all, love?” replied the waitress and hurried on her way.

“… _So, all you Prince fans, sit back and enjoy your favourites. All right, let’s give a warm Spearmint Rhino welcome to our next contestant…Sherringford Holmes!_ ”

No.

John weaved his way closer to the stage and sat down in an empty chair.

The lights dimmed. The music began.

A figure stood onstage, back to the audience, draped in a dark hooded robe, but as the first bars of the song rang out, it turned and a long, bare, shapely leg appeared.

**_I never meant to cause you any sorrow._ **

John knew that leg. But even if he _didn’t_ know that leg, he certainly knew the Prada Swarovski crystal-encrusted high-heeled shoe that was at the end of that leg.

He’d bought it, after all, and when a man spends that much money on something that looks and sounds like a swinging chandelier while on the foot of someone chasing a double-murderer down an alley, he remembers. Especially when he’s running behind said chandelier.

**_I never meant to cause you any pain._ **

The leg swirled and so did the figure.

**_I only wanted one time to see you laughing._ **

John stared as the figure strode towards the edge of the stage—towards John, or so it seemed—with slow, zig-zagged steps.

**_I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain._ **

A pair of hands gripped the sides of the hood. A pair of familiar grey eyes looked into John’s.

**_Purple rain, purple rain._ **

BOOM!

A flash of violet flame. A puff of violet smoke.

The robe dropped. The tempo quickened.

**_One, two, one, two, three. Yeah!_ **

And there was Sherlock.

**_I was working part time in a five-and-dime._ **

**_My boss was Mr. McGee._ **

He was shimmying. He was snapping his fingers. He was sashaying, John could not think of a better word for it, in a dark pink hat and matching G-string and chandelier shoes. 

And nothing else.

And it wasn’t just his feet that called to mind swinging chandeliers: his entire body was dipped in pebble-sized iridescent glitter.

**_He told me several times that he didn't like my kind._ **

**_'Cause I was a bit too leisurely._ **

Sherlock froze, one hip cocked, and looked over his shoulder and shot John the most _come-and-get-me_ look he’d send in more than three years.

John stared, mouth open.

Sherlock smirked.

Then he pivoted, and John watched his arse wriggle as he danced to the centre of the stage, more precisely, to the floor-to-ceiling pole at the centre of the stage that became visible as the multi-coloured stage lights went up.

**_Seems that I was busy doing something close to nothing_ **

**_But different than the day before_ **

Sherlock grabbed the pole with one hand and, standing beside it, rolled his body, from toe to head, curling and uncurling like ribbon.

**_That's when I saw her, ooh, I saw her_ **

**_She walked in through the out door, out door_ **

He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts of his hips.

Only then, did it dawn on John what kind of hat it was.

**_She wore a raspberry beret_ **

**_The kind you find in a second hand store_ **

Sherlock swung around the pole, first with legs straight, then bent.

**_Raspberry beret_ **

**_And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more_ **

Sherlock twisted upside down, straddling the pole. The beret, miraculously, remained affixed to his head, while the baubles attached to his shoes dangled and shook and reflected rainbows of light.

**_Raspberry beret_ **

**_I think I love her_ **

Sherlock lowered himself to the floor and began to march forwards and backwards, pausing only twice to jerk his head to the side and strike a haughty, seductive pose.

**_Built like she was, she had the nerve to ask me_ **

**_If I planned to do her any harm_ **

John looked about the room, every set of eyes were fixed on Sherlock; even a couple of waitresses had stopped their work, trays on hips, to watch. When John looked back at the stage, Sherlock was swinging around the pole again, sliding lower and lower, until he launched himself across the floor.  

**_So, look here I put her on the back of my bike_ **

**_And we went riding down by old man Johnson's farm_ **

Now Sherlock was on the floor. John, and everyone in the audience, he supposed, sat up straighter in their seats to get a better view. 

**_I said now, overcast days never turned me on_ **

**_But something about the clouds and her mixed_ **

Sherlock was fucking the floor.

John knew that Sherlock was fucking the floor because he recognised—despite Sherlock’s jab of the previous day, John did remember the sex, thank you, and vividly—and _that_ , that grinding of hips, that squeezing of arse cheeks, that sitting up on his knees, that running his hands over his own torso and tweaking his own nipples and puffing his chest out and arching his back and curling his arms behind his head— _that_ was Sherlock fucking.

Like the Swarovski crystal-encrusted diva that he was.

**_She wasn't too bright, but I could tell when she kissed me_ **

Still on his knees, Sherlock turned, looked John straight in the eye, and puckered his lips. And winked.

**_She knew how to get her kicks._ **

John smiled and shook his head.

Cheeky. Fucking. Bastard.

At the chorus, Sherlock got to his feet and climbed the pole with a gymnast’s grace and gravity-defying strength. His body and all its angles and plains, the hollows of ribs, the mounds of taut muscle, made a kaleidoscope pattern of light and shadow as he wound back down the chrome shaft.

**_She wore a raspberry beret_ **

**_The kind you find in a second hand store_ **

**_Raspberry beret_ **

**_And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more_ **

**_Raspberry beret_ **

**_I think I love her_ **

As John watched Sherlock’s acrobatic undulations, he couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d heard the song and the first time he’d seen it performed. He remembered that newly-awakened fascination, that feeling of being witness to something novel and strange and beautiful and dangerous and puzzling. Of being drawn, attracted. Of being hooked, well and good. And not understanding why.

And he realised that he had felt that way once since his youth: on the day the he’d limped into the laboratory at Barts.

**_The rain sounds so cool when it hits the barn roof_ **

**_And the horses wonder who you are_ **

Sherlock was upright now, twirling and twisting and spinning as if the pole was his dance partner.

**_Thunder drowns out what the lightning sees_ **

**_You feel like a movie star_ **

Sherlock’s hips made slow figure eights that morphed into full body rolls.

**_Listen, they say the first time ain't the greatest_ **

**_But I tell ya if I had the chance to do it all again_ **

His hips moved faster. And faster. And he closed his eyes. And the almost pained expression on his face and the staccato buck of his hips meant one thing to John: in Sherlock’s mind, he was fucking the pole.

**_I wouldn't change a stroke_ **

**_'Cause baby I'm the most_ **

John could not look away.

He wanted to be the pole.

His body stirred at the fantasy. And the memory. He drew the Belstaff across his lap to hide the evidence.

He _had been_ the pole. Once upon a time, he’d felt the pounding beat of Sherlock’s cock deep inside him, felt the pounding beat of his own heart, felt the pounding beat of their combined lust build like a crescendo inside them both.

**_With a girl as fine as she was then!_ **

**_She wore a_ …**

At the launch of the chorus, Sherlock struck and held a pose of release: head thrown back, hips thrust forward, body stretched into an arc, curving as far away from the pole as the tether of his one arm would allow.

The house erupted into cheers and catcalls.

John clapped and whistled and was about to get to his feet with the rest when he heard his name.

“Doctor Watson.”

John jumped.

Nostalgia and half-hard cocks were promptly forgotten, and it came crashing down on him that, in the end, this was a case and a case meant danger, even if it might not be of the life-threatening variety—the WATSON of the telegram was one of Sherlock’s old codes for ‘urgent, but don’t bring the Browning.’

The young woman looked vaguely familiar and even more vaguely trustworthy. She said, “I apologise for startling you. If you would, please follow me. Mister Holmes will be with you shortly.”

John followed her.

Mister Holmes. Mister Holmes. Who’d call him 'Mister Holmes' in this day and age?

Then it clicked. Her face. You’d call him Mister Holmes if he cleared your father’s name of a particularly vicious triple murder rap by proving to the police he was house-breaking in completely different part of town.

She led him through the crowd and down a hallway. Then she stood to one side of a door and gestured for him to enter.

John glanced at the sign as he crossed the threshold.

So this was the Champagne Room.


	2. A body like yours oughta be in jail 'cause it's on the verge of bein' obscene

John ensconced himself in the armchair with the best view of the entrance.

Suddenly, there was a smattering of applause from the patrons and dancers already occupying the nooks and crannies of the dark room as well as from the pair of waitresses that had been moving silently about, attending to needs in hushed tones.

Applause. And the cheeky _fucking_ bastard standing in the doorway bowed.

John’s gaze dropped as Sherlock closed the distance between them.

Sherlock was wearing purple leather chaps. And the chandelier shoes. And a grin. And nothing else.

Correction: in addition to the chandelier shoes and the grin, Sherlock was wearing crotch-less—and John assumed, though he could not be certain from his vantage point—arse-less, purple leather chaps. Even in the dim room, John could easily make out the G-string still valiantly holding Sherlock’s cock in place. If ever a piece of Spandex deserved a war medal, it was that little brave pink scrap.

Sherlock stopped in front of John.

John leaned forward and whispered, “What is the case?”

“It’s the Case of the Apologising Detective.”

“ _That_ was your way of apologising for making me witness your suicide and mourn your death for three years?!”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m sorry, John. It _was_ ego and pride, as you said, but those came later. Mostly, I was just terrified of losing you. And once things were set in motion…”

“You had to play the game.”

“But I never stopped thinking of you, John. Never. I never stopped working to keep you safe. I never stopped making my way back to you.” 

“I went to your grave. I made a speech. I asked you for one more miracle. I asked—no, I _begged_ —you to stop being dead.”

“I heard you. And I did it. And now it’s time for me to beg.”

“You’ve never begged in your life, you said so.”

“I’ve never begged _for mercy_ in my life. But I don’t need your mercy, John. I need your forgiveness.” Sherlock got to his knees. “Forgive me, John, please. As Mister Prince aptly says, ‘I never meant to cause you in sorrow. I never meant to cause you any pain. I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain.’ I believe that last part is figurative as actual precipitation of an aubergine hue would indicate a meteorological catastrophe and it would be unwise for you to expose yourself to—“

John put two fingers on Sherlock’s lips.

“You are extraordinary, Sherlock. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry for holding on to all this resentment like it was a badge of honour instead of the burden that it is. I think I’m finally ready to let it go and move on with our lives. I guess we’ve never been an ordinary couple that resolves things in ordinary ways. Maybe what we needed was something outrageous, bigger-than-life…”

John’s voice faltered as his eyes wandered all over Sherlock, arms, chest, face, hair, and he had the sense that he was seeing Sherlock, actually _seeing_ him, for the very first time since his return.

Sherlock smiled. “How about a dance?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock turned his head and gave a nod toward the door.

John caught the flash of a smiling face. “Angelo’s daughter."

Sherlock beamed. “Very good, John. Enterprising lot, the whole family.”

John looked about the room and was surprised to discover that they were alone. Speakers crackled, and a booming voice announced.

“… _thank you very much. And now we have our last contestant_ …”

 “I never knew that you were such an amazing dancer, Sherlock.”

“I love dancing. I’ve always loved it. Never really comes up in crime work, but I live in hope of the right case.”

A swell of synthesized chords emanated from the speakers.

“One of my favourites,” John confessed.

Sherlock’s voice fell to a dark, low rumble. “In that case, why not sit back and enjoy the show?”

John smiled.

“But I must warn you,” added Sherlock hastily. “Miss Angelo informed me that the cardinal rule of this particular locale is ‘No boom-boom in the Champagne Room.’ The phrase ‘boom-boom’ refers to sexual congress.”

“Yes, I got that,” said John. “Well, I’ll just keep my hands to myself.” He gripped the edge of the chair arms for emphasis.

**_I guess I should've known by the way_ **

**_You parked your car sideways that it wouldn't last_ **

Sherlock turned abruptly and strut a few steps away.

The chaps _were_ arse-less. Naturally.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. He pouted, then mouthed the words.

**_See, you're the kinda person that believes in makin' out once_ **

**_Love 'em and leave 'em fast_ **

Then he strut back, lifting each knee as one leg crossed in front of the other. When he reached John, he glanced at him with a coy smile, then looked away.

**_I guess I must be dumb_ **

**_'Cause you had a pocket full of horses_ **

**_Trojan and some of them used_ **

He stepped to one side, then the other, rolling his hips as he moved.

**_But it was Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right_ **

Then he jumped and shook.

**_And you say, "What have I got to lose?"_ **

Then he leaned forward and began to shimmy and sway.

John watched it all, mesmerized.

Most of the glitter was gone. John suspected that whatever feeble adhesive had been used to keep it stuck to Sherlock’s body had, in the end, been no match for the sweat that that his dancing under the stage lights had produced.

**_And honey, I say Little Red Corvette_ **

**_Baby, you're much too fast_ **

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_You need a love that's gonna last_ **

Sherlock tossed his head, and some of that sweat landed on John, and John recalled hot summer nights when Sherlock’s preternaturally-cool ‘transport’ finally succumb to its internal thermostat. Their bodies sticking together…

Sherlock read his mind, of course, and puckered his lips in a long-distance kiss; then he slid a hand down his own torso, stopping briefly to tease a pink nipple. Then he closed his eyes and turned and danced away.

**_I guess I should've closed my eyes_ **

**_When you drove me to the place where your horses run free_ **

Sherlock stopped and bent forward, arse in the air. He slapped his hands to the back of his legs and ran them up to his cheeks as stood up. He looked back as if to check if John was watching.

John smirked. Of course, he was watching. Where else would he look?

**_'Cause I felt a little ill when I saw all the pictures_ **

**_Of the jockeys that were there before me_ **

Still gripping his own arse, Sherlock rolled his hips to one side then the other. As the tempo sped up, he turned and sashayed back to John.

**_Believe it or not, I started to worry_ **

**_I wondered if I had enough class_ **

**_But it was Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right_ **

**_And you say,_ **

Sherlock stopped and looked at John, and John, ever taking the cue, mouthed the rest of the line.

**_Baby, have you got enough gas?_ **

Sherlock smiled and threw his arms in the air and shook his hips, dancing in a circle.

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_Baby, you're much too fast_ **

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_You need to find a love that's gonna last_ **

Sherlock launched into full body rolls. John got to his feet and breathed the words of the song against Sherlock’s damp skin.

**_A body like yours oughta be in jail_ **

**_'Cause it's on the verge of bein' obscene_ **

John circled Sherlock’s undulating form, stopping to bend and blatantly ogle the leather-framed arse as it quivered and bounced and vibrated. Then he looked up.

Sherlock was watching John, watching John’s mouth, through the half-lidded eyes.

Those eyelashes. Those cheekbones. Those lips. Even Sherlock’s face was on the verge of being obscene.

John’s eyes bore into Sherlock’s as he mouthed the words.

**_Move over, baby, gimme the keys_ **

**_I'm gonna try to tame your little red love machine_ **

And there may, just may, have been a silent ‘please, John’ on Sherlock’s lips just before John threw himself back in the armchair, and Sherlock began shimmying to the chorus.

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_Baby, you're much too fast_ **

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_Need to find a love that's gonna last…_ **

As the song played on, John watched Sherlock dance with joyful abandon and felt a surge of tenderness.

Sherlock _really_ _did_ love dancing.

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_Honey, you got to slow down…_ **

**_'Cause if you don't, you're gonna run your little red corvette_ **

**_Right in the ground_ **

Now, Sherlock’s arse was in John’s face, slowly moving in wide circles and then rolling up and down.

**_Girl, you got an ass like I never seen, ow_ **

**_And the ride_ **

John gripped the arms of the chair tighter.

That beautiful round flesh.

Caressing it. Kneading it. Slapping it. Licking it.

Sinking every part of himself into it. Fingers. Teeth. Hard, hard prick.

**_I say the ride is so smooth, you must be a Limousine…_ **

John’s cock was straining against his jeans. He coughed and said in a low voice, “Perhaps we should go home, Sherlock. Three years of sad wanking in the shower does something to a man’s control.”

Sherlock rose up and looked over his shoulder.

“What do you think three years of no wanking at all does?”

John stared at Sherlock’s face. Then his gaze travelled lower. Sherlock was not hard, at least from what John could see. “How on earth—?”

“Trade secret,” said Sherlock with a wink. Then he resumed his grinding.

**_Ow, baby, you're much too fast_ **

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_You need a love, you need a love that's, uh, that's gonna last_ **

Sherlock’s arse moved closer and closer to John’s crotch.

Wiggling, wriggling.

So tempting, so inviting that John could almost hear Sherlock’s voice, that breathy plea he used when he thought John was taking too long to prep him.

'Fuck me, John. Please.'

And it was just a slight brush, the faintest touch of skin to denim, but John’s body reacted immediately.

“FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he swore under his breath as his whole body convulsed. Sherlock turned to face him and slowed, but did not stop, his dance. John closed his eyes and rolled his head from side-to-side.

**_Babe, you got to slow down_ **

**_Little Red Corvette_ **

**_'Cause if you don't, 'cause if you don't_ **

**_You're gonna run your body right into the ground_ **

As the music faded, John rubbed his face and exhaled loudly. “There’s some teenage nostalgia for you. Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Sherlock! It’s been more than twenty years since I came in my pants!”

“Mister Prince is, indeed, a purple wonder.”

“So are you, you _fucking_ beast. With that _fucking_ body of yours and that _fucking_ ,” John gestured to the chaps, “whatever that is, and the damn shoes, and Christ Almighty, can we go home?”

“I think that in my current state even the short distance to Baker Street might prove too difficult to manage. There is a dark and infrequently trafficked alley behind this establishment. Perhaps…”

John stood and growled, “I’m going to suck you so hard, I’ll be shitting glitter for a week.”

“Not the most salubrious of aims, but I applaud the enthusiasm. Let’s go.”

John reached for the Belstaff, which was draped along the back of the armchair. When he turned back, his eyes caught Sherlock’s shoes. More than just the crystals were sparkling.

“Christ, your toenails, Sherlock! Your feet, your cock, your arse, everything is getting sucked tonight—“

“… _and now, the winner of our Tribute to Prince contest…Sherringford Holmes! Congratulations!_ ”

They stopped and stared at each other.

“You won!” cried John.

And Sherlock laughed, one of those rare, genuine laughs that softened his whole face. And John's heart.

But in an instant, his cool reserve returned.

“Naturally, John. As I believe I mentioned previously, art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.”

“… _we have something very special for our winner_ …”

John laughed. “Yeah, let’s blame it on Vernet. Well, go claim your prize.”

Sherlock hesitated. “John, do you think they’ll want an encore?”

John snorted. “I know I do, so yeah, probably. I’m going to take a detour by the gents and try to clean myself up a bit before the mess in my pants dries completely.” He headed for the door. “I’ll meet you…”

Sherlock hesitated again. “Um, John…”

“Yes?”

Sherlock laid a hand on John’s shoulder and kissed his cheek softly. Then he disappeared through the doorway.

John smiled.

So _this_ was the Champagne Room.

 


	3. Color U peach and black, color me taken aback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's prize boots are [here](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/post/139603645268/multicolored-sequined-dior-boots-sherlock-would). Sherlock's candy G-string is [here](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/post/141606701834/seeing-sherlock-in-his-easter-outfit-made-john). All from the [Sherlock in Heels](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/%22) tumblr.

Master of disguise.

Such a commonplace term. People used it all sorts of ways, to mean all sorts of things, but John knew its real meaning, its true import.

Sherlock Holmes was a master of disguise.

Yes, Sherlock could don a security guard’s uniform or a priest’s collar and play a role, but he could also, when in front of a microphone and a room full of people, affect a breathy, soft, but decidedly American accent, full of a certain Minneapolis sound.

If John closed his eyes, he would swear it was Prince himself speaking.

“Thank you so much.”

He’d won a pair of a rainbow-sequined Dior boots. They’d have to be custom fit to his size 11 foot, of course, but still. John was already anticipating the day they’d arrive at Baker Street.

“ _How about another dance, Sherringford, to close the show out for the night and send our beautiful guests home with smiles on their faces? Would you like that, everybody? If so, make some noise!_ ”

The crowd cheered.

“You’re such a wonderful group tonight,” said Sherlock. “Thank you so much. This dance is dedicated to my boyfriend, Ormond Sacker. He is my one fixed point in a changing age.” Sherlock reached his arm out, and the spotlight travelled down the centre of the room to where John was standing, leaning against a pillar in the back. John gave a curt smile and wave, and the spotlight made its return journey to the stage.

Well, well, well.

It _was_ a night for nostalgia. Ormond Sacker.

The announcer exited the stage. The lights dimmed. Sherlock stood in front of the pole, head bowed, body draped in the long dark robe of his first performance. The music began and an electronic voice sounded.

**_Here we are folks_ **

**_The dream we all dream of_ **

**_Boy versus girl in the World Series of love_ **

The robe fell away again.

Oh!

Atop the pink G-string, Sherlock wore a similar garment in size, but very different in material.

What _was_ it?

Beads. Pastel beads.

John squinted and suddenly it dawned on him.

They were sweets. The beaded sweets of kids’ candy bracelets and necklaces.

And because John loved Sherlock, and did not just lust after him with the pooled desire of a Spartan army home from war, his second and third thoughts were of how much force from his teeth would be required to snap whatever string held the confection together and of how pretty those beads would look scattered about the ground of a dark alley while he sucked Sherlock off.

His first thought was: _I hope there’s no coconut in those. Sherlock has a latex allergy._

But he didn’t think anything for long because Sherlock was dancing.

**_U walked in, I woke up_ **

**_I never seen a pretty girl_ **

**_Look so tough, baby_ **

**_U got that look_ **

John’s jaw dropped. The rest of the audience might be viewing a sexy, titillating dance. John, too, was viewing a sexy titillating dance.

But it was much, much more.

Because John knew much more. He knew that with every spin, wave, and gyration, Sherlock was telling their story. The story of the day they met.

**_Color U peach and black_ **

**_Color me takin' aback_ **

**_Crucial, I think I wantcha_ **

There was Sherlock at the bench in the lab at Barts with the pipette. There was John, hobbling into the room. There was Stamford! There was Sherlock’s deduction—and a better kinetic visualisation of Sherlock’s mind and John’s reaction to Sherlock’s mind John had yet to see. There was Sherlock waltzing out the room with a wink.

**_You've got the look, you've got the hook_ **

**_U sho'nuf do be cookin' in my book_ **

**_Your face is jammin'_ **

**_Your body's heck-a-slammin'_ **

**_If love is good, let's get 2 rammin'_ **

**_U got the look, U got the look_ **

Now Sherlock was on the pole, but the story-telling had continued: the ‘Study in Pink’ crime scene, Angelo’s, John leaving behind his cane, the drug bust.

**_Look here_ **

**_U got the look_ **

**_U must'a took_ **

**_A whole hour just 2 make up your face, baby_ **

**_Closin' time, ugly lights, everybody's inspected_ **

**_But U are a natural beauty unaffected_ **

**_Did I say an hour? My face is red, I stand corrected_ **

The story had reached the showdown with the cabbie. Sherlock strut toward the very edge of the stage, arm outstretched, finger cocked, eyes boring into John.

And John didn’t need any more cue than that look. Something was going to happen, John suspected a flash and bang explosion, and Sherlock would vanish.

And John would be waiting for him in the alley.

* * *

 

“You utter prat!” yelled John, running after two tiny, jangling chandeliers.

The candies _had_ looked pretty scattered about the alley, but Sherlock had been unable to resist pawing John in the cab. The cabman had put them out, and Sherlock had got the brilliant idea to race back home.  They reached Baker Street, panting.

Sherlock still wore the cape and G-string and shoes.  “You look like some couture superhero,” said John, catching his breath.

“Mister Prince would approve.”

“You know it’s just ‘Prince,’ not ‘Mister Prince.’”

“But then how does one distinguish him from Wallace and Horace?”

John stared at him, frowning. “Oh, right. Hee, hee.” He giggled. “I’ve got to tell Gavin that he’s a man among princes. I forgot to ask: where did you get these clothes?”

“Remember James Ryder?”

“The bloke you let off that one Christmas? I never understood that, Sherlock…”

“As I said then that he would not go wrong again, and I was right. He launched a clothing line much appreciated by entertainers of all venues and is doing very well for himself. He was more than happy to lend me a few pieces.”

John laughed. “Well, thank you for the dances. All of them.”

“You’re welcome. I have a goal, John.”

“Hmm?”

“I want to fuck to every single song of Mister Prince’s.”

John laughed. “Tonight? Not physically possible. He recorded forty albums. And if you include the songs he wrote for other artists, the number is even greater.”

“But it could be a long term goal? Say a three-year reparation plan?”

John smiled. “Deal.”

He extended his hand, and Sherlock shook it, grinning.

“Ready?”

“Ready when you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that the muse fizzled so quickly with this one. If I get the urge to do more Prince songfics, I'll add on as epilogues, but for now it's complete. 
> 
> R.I.P. Mister Prince.


	4. Love come quick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Hallowe’en, John’s held hostage in the Aquarium. It’s Sherlock to the rescue! In knickers and heels. And Prince ("Thieves in the Temple").
> 
> For the Kinktober Day 15 prompt: lapdance.
> 
> Here are Sherlock’s [octopus shoes](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/post/165508520773/but-john-i-could-wear-these-to-the-aquarium). Here are Sherlock's [knickers](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/post/162650649308/sherlock-needs-some-shoes-to-go-with-his-new).

_WHAM!_

John saw stars. Then he saw fish.

“Hey, watch the nose and mouth. It would be a pity if we got blood all over the doctor’s pretty uniform before we kill him.”

Three sets of laughter. One snort.

John couldn’t move. All he did was hurt. He pried one eye open.

Fish, still.

It was cool and dark and his captors were bathed in an eerie glow.

Shadow of a predatory fin. Light through water and glass.

Aquarium.

Oh, c’mon! Sherlock was probably still sore about missing the Yarders’ Hallowe’en Ball, but John could really use a bit of help.

_WHAM!_

Oh, fuck.

More stars.

“That’s enough. Shall we feed him to the piranhas or just shoot him?”

One laugh. Three snorts.

“Yeah, just shoot him.”

“All right, doctor. This is what we do to meddling sods who throw a wrench in our little gem import-export business.”

_Click!_

A jaguar-in-a-cello baritone spoke.

**_“There was once a merchant in the famous market at Baghdad.”_ **

Oh, God, Sherlock.

The Appointment in Samarra, really?

John’s captors all shouted at once.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I told you to clear the place.”

“You said the place was clear! Oh, you’re gonna get it.”

“It _was_ clear!”

John forced both eyes open. Once his sight adjusted to the dimness, he realised that he was bound to a chair near the entrance to the main glass tunnel of the aquarium. A round gallery was just in front of him. It had an open ceiling that he knew from previous visits rose three floors and was encircled with wide staircases.

**_“One day he saw a stranger looking at him in surprise, and he knew that the stranger was Death.”_ **

The kidnappers looked up, so did John, as a figure, completely shrouded in a dark hooded cloak, descended from above.

Part Grim Reaper, part Dark Knight, part Ok-Have-Your-Dramatic-Entrance-Just-Get-Me-Out-of-Here-Alive angel.

Suddenly, music filled the air. A tapping of a wood block and a synthesizer. And a voice.

_Love come quick_

_Love come in a hurry_

_There are thieves in the temple tonight._

Oh, God. Prince _and_ the Appointment in Samarra? He’s _furious_ about missing the Hallowe’en Ball!

The kidnappers froze, staring as the figure floated down.

The music quieted, and the narration resumed.

**_“Pale and trembling, the merchant fled the marketplace and made his way many, many miles to the city of Samarra, for there he was sure Death could not find him.”_ **

When the figure was still some distance from the ground, he freed himself of whatever contraption was holding him aloft, and in one graceful motion, swooped down, threw off his garment, and began to kick arse.

To pop accompaniment, naturally.

WHAM! BAM! WHAM!

_They don't care where they kick_

_Just as long as they hurt you_

_There are thieves in the temple tonight._

The thugs were a quartet of big, brawny curs, but Sherlock had speed, cleverness, and the element of surprise on his side.

For, after all, who would expect someone with superior hand-to-hand combat skills to engage in said combat in nothing but high-heeled shoes made of turquoise octopus tentacles with bright yellow suckers and matching skull-patterned, lacy knickers?

Soon, Sherlock had felled two of the four. He took on the last two, kicking and punching, as he recited.

**_“But when at last he came to Samarra, the merchant saw, waiting for him, the grim figure of Death. ‘Very well,’ said the merchant. ‘I give in. I am yours.’”_ **

But these two were one too many. It seemed that Sherlock and John had met their match because one of the thugs had grabbed the gun from where it had fallen and pointed it at John.

“Say your prayers, doctor,” he said, obviously having been weaned on the same Hollywood scripts as Sherlock.

The music resumed.

_Love if you're there come save me_

_From all this cold despair_

_I can hang when you're around_

_But I'll surely die_

_If you're not there._

John had to give it to him, Mister Prince was an insightful artist.

Really, a tune for every occasion.

Even this one.

John gulped. Sherlock had knocked out the third thug but he could not possibly reach the last one before the shot was fired. And at this distance, well, it was like shooting Johns in a glass fish barrel.

Or something like that.

John closed his eyes and, taking the thug’s advice, said a prayer.

**_“But tell me: why did you look surprised when you saw me this morning in Baghdad?”_ **

“POLICE!”

“Oh, thank God,” breathed John.

The next few minutes were chaos.

Struggle. Shouting. Swearing. Cuffs clicking. And, finally, Sherlock’s whine.

“John, this stupid toad spoiled my Samarra punchline!”

“I’m a frog!” croaked Lestrade. “And you’re the ugliest, most naked mermaid I’ve ever seen. Get a tail. And a bra. And some seaweed. Cover yourself up.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” mumbled John. “Can you, uh, give us a hand?” He opened his eyes and watched, half-mesmerised, as Sherlock’s swaying lace-clad hips and sashaying coiled heels approached. And John swiftly realised that he was not alone in his trance state, for the crooks and the cops one and all seemed to be fixed on Sherlock, their expressions of puzzled fascination.

Soon grey eyes were dancing over John’s still-bound form. “They took you, they hurt you, and they got blood on your uniform,” he hissed and looked over his shoulder, scowling murderously. “On Hallowe’en.”

“I’ll mend,” said John. “It’ll wash.”

Sherlock turned back and brushed the side of John’s head with a gentle hand.

“I promised you a lapdance if you took me to the Yarders’ Hallowe’en Ball in your uniform, John.”

“Uh, yeah, well, we almost made it. There’s always next year—"

Sherlock put a finger to John’s lips.

“Half the ball is here. And a promise is a promise,” he declared solemnly.

_Love come quick_

_Love come in a hurry_

_There are thieves in the temple tonight._

Sherlock spun around and took a wide stance, then began to stomp. His whole fleshy posterior jiggled to the _thump-thump_ of the song. Then he quickly bent over, arse in the air, and grabbed his ankles, smoothing his hands up the back of his legs as he righted himself. Then he gave himself a pair of loud, hard smacks on his buttocks, causing his flesh to jiggle once more, this time even more violently, even more wonderfully.

John groaned.

“Sherlock as much as I adore your, uh, dancing, I don’t know if this is quite the time or place—"

Over the music, John heard an exasperated Donovan. “Sir, he’s disturbing a crime scene. Can’t we arrest him?”

“Just work around him.”

“But sir!”

“It’s easier than _trying_ to arrest him.”

_I feel like I'm looking for my soul_

_Like a poor man looking for gold_

Sherlock rolled his hips, then his whole body. Then he twirled in circles around John’s chair. When he returned to face John, he leaned in close and shimmied. The iridescent body glitter—because, of course—rained down on John’s uniform.

_There are thieves in the temple tonight._

_Voices from the sky say rely on your best friend to pull you through_

Sherlock met John’s gaze. John smiled and then they mouthed the words together as Sherlock’s shoulders moved back and forth to the beat.

_But even if I wanted to I couldn't really truly 'cause my only friend is you_

At the guitar solo, Sherlock stepped away from John to do his own interpretative movements in the police spotlight. And to their credit, the Yarders, dressed as everything from vampires to a pair of petri dishes to a very toady-looking frog gave Sherlock a wide berth as they hauled away bad guys and collected the gun and samples of glitter.

Sherlock’s undulations imitated those of the sea creatures that swam over John’s head.

_Come on_

_There are thieves in the temple tonight_

Sherlock twirled and writhed back towards John.

_Kicking me in my heart, tearing me all apart_

_Tearing me, tearing me, tearing me all apart_

And whispered into John’s ear.

_“Cause me and u could have been a work of art._

Then he danced toward the wall of the aquarium. And John wasn’t certain what the children were calling it these days, but Sherlock appeared to be ‘bumping-and-grinding’ at the fish on the other side of the glass.

_Thieves in the temple_

“We got what we need, lads? All villains and evidence collected, labelled, and accounted for?” called Lestrade, tossing something under John’s chair.

John looked down and saw it was a box-cutter.

Oh, hallelujah! God bless, Kermit!

“Yes!” answered the crew.

“Turn the lights out when you leave, Officer and, uh, his Gentle-squid. Statements tomorrow. At noon. Fully-clothed. Thank you!”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was too busy attempting to engage a shark into a lusty paso doble. The shark seemed nonplussed, but the kraken in John’s trousers was becoming quite keen on release.

_Baby don't u know I'm holding on_

_The best that I can_

_Love please help me be_

_The better man_

Sherlock danced back to John, knelt, picked up the boxcutter, and cut the ties at John’s ankles. He massaged the circulation back into John’s legs as he spread them and nestled himself between them.

John looked up. “There are a lot of fish watching us, Sherlock. And this is, or was, a crime scene.”

_Better than the thieves in the temple_

_In the temple tonight_

Sherlock nuzzled John’s crotch. Then he licked a wet stripe up John’s clothed bulge.

_Oh, thieves in the temple_

_Tonight, tonight_

As the music faded, Sherlock looked up and smiled a sweet smile.

“Sherlock, no one on earth could walk in those crazy shoes, much less dance, knock out three bad guys, and rescue a boyfriend, all without chipping your pedicure, so, once again, you’re extraordinary. And I’m sorry we missed the Hallowe’en Ball, but you’re always my princess. And my little mermaid.” He frowned. “And my knight errant. A lot of things, actually.”

Sherlock nuzzled John’s crotch again and sang in an off-key voice.

“Love come quick? Love come in a hurry?”

“With you, difficult not to,” John growled. “C’mon. Plunder me. I’ll lie back and, uh, look at the fishies.”


End file.
